Chapter 23
The hotel was quiet, save for the low hum of the TV and the occasional crinkle of wrapping paper, as I folded and taped the last of my Christmas presents.
For once everything felt… still. My to-do list was getting shorter – Pim had met and liked Alison, which meant I could mentally tick that off.
Josh and I were speaking again. Actually, speaking was an understatement, he wouldn’t stop sending me photos of outfits for Christmas Day, asking for my opinion on everything from ties to socks, like we were suddenly the kind of siblings who coordinated wardrobes.
It was nice, though.
The ice rink. Simon’s and my hands linked as we skated – or fell, in his case – his cheeks flushed from the cold as mine flushed with more.
The kiss.
‘Only You’ scoring the moment I would never have even dreamed of; it was too perfect.
The mere memory made my chest ache with wordless longing as the feelings washed over me – the cold air, the soft glow of the rink lights, the way his hands had settled at my waist, sure and steady. The way he had kissed me like he meant it. Like he felt something.
I should have stayed. I should have said something, rather than bristle and run when he said something I didn’t want to hear. But instead, I had run, because that’s what I did. Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to want something and not immediately talk myself out of it.
I glanced at the time. After 21.00. Too late to go to Covent Garden. The busking would be over. And we’d never exchanged numbers – he had pointed it out himself, half amused, half exasperated.
And now I regretted it.
I missed him. That’s why I had returned to the rink, only once after, to find the magic again – and hoping to run into him and reclaim that perfect evening, to correct its ending – but he wasn’t there.
And the magic wasn’t the same without him.
Though viewers had commented about how dazzling it looked, how they wanted to visit, how they could feel the love I had for this city. Maybe more than the city?
And I did. I really did. I set my phone aside and picked up the next gift to distract myself.
Megan’s gift. A beautiful leather journal, embossed with her initials.
Josh was getting a ridiculous cookbook I’d found in a second-hand shop, called Meals Men Can’t Mess Up – he’d either laugh or be deeply offended.
Possibly both. For Pim, a thick, cable-knit scarf in a deep forest green.
She always complained about the cold but refused to wear anything practical.
Denise and Bob were getting a beautiful, framed print of a London street at Christmas, the kind that felt warm and nostalgic, like a memory you weren’t sure was yours.
I placed the last gift in the pile, stretching my legs out in front of me as I turned my attention back to the documentary playing in the background.
Michael Holland was standing on a wind-battered cliff, hair messy from the sea breeze, speaking passionately about the history of smugglers along the Cornish coast.
He was good. Really good. Even if he came across as a bit of a dick sometimes.
There was a sharpness to him, a slight arrogance in the way he spoke. But he knew how to hold an audience, how to make you care. And he cared, that much was obvious. His enthusiasm bled through the screen, making history feel alive, instead of something buried in textbooks.
Curious, I picked up my phone again, fingers idly typing his name into Google.
Michael Holland.
It was there, in one of the first articles. His wife had died of cancer in her early fifties. I frowned, scrolling further. He had a son. No name, no details, just a passing mention.
I sat back, chewing my lip.
It was strange the way we only ever saw fragments of people’s lives. On-screen, he was confident, opinionated, larger than life. Off-screen, he was a man who had lost his wife too young, he was a father raising a son. It made him more human, I supposed.
I dropped my phone onto the bed sheets, my thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely. But almost immediately, my phone buzzed.
I picked it up, expecting another outfit update from Josh. Instead, it was another email from Elijah, chasing me for a reply.
I stared at it for a moment before locking my phone and tossing it onto the coffee table.
It could wait.
Everything could wait.
For now, I just wanted to close my eyes and pretend I was still on the ice, with Simon’s hands on my waist and the world slowing down around us.
Tomorrow, I’d figure everything else out.